Hindsight and Contrasts
by Lady-of-the-Refrigerator
Summary: Red knew Liz might not keep her promise about contacting Tom, he /had/ to. She could see the resignation in his eyes before he took his book and walked away. If he knew, why even bother asking for it? Why leave her with this twisting guilt in the pit of her stomach? [3x04 Missing Scene, One-shot, Lizzington, Complete]


Liz knew Red was awake.

The false wall between the living room and the bedroom didn't reach the edge of the stage, so she could easily see that the light on the nightstand was still on. How he could still lose himself in a book at a time like this was beyond her, but Red did love his stories. She had half a mind to storm over there and have him tell her one of them or make him run lines again or pick a fight or something—anything to distract her from the surreal tranquility of the empty theater and the mock (and mocking) domesticity of the set.

Somehow, despite the growing itch of the impulse, Liz managed to restrain herself, settling instead for resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands.

Twenty minutes passed in silence, save for the occasional rustling from the pages of his book.

Thirty minutes passed.

Forty.

This was awful. She wasn't going to get any sleep if she just sat here like this. At least Red had that book to keep his mind occupied until he was drowsy enough for sleep. She had nothing but her own thoughts, which lately had been very poor company indeed, especially now that Tom had taken up residence in them once again.

She didn't need Tom mixed up in her mess. There were already way too many variables in play without him, variables not even Red could anticipate and he'd been living this life for over twenty years. Being on the run was proving to be a terrifying, adrenaline-fueled nightmare; she had no idea how he had survived it for so long, where he found the strength and determination to keep going, to not look back.

Red knew she might not keep her promise about contacting Tom, he _had_ to. She could see the resignation in his eyes before he took his book and walked away. If he knew, why even bother asking for it? Why leave her with this twisting guilt in the pit of her stomach?

Did Red not realize that if she didn't say anything to Tom, he wouldn't stop? He would take her silence as proof she needed his help. If she talked to him, she might have a chance to change his mind.

But, then again, would Tom really stop even if she asked him to? He listened only when it suited him, otherwise he did whatever the hell he wanted to do, regardless of how it would affect anyone else. Once he got an idea in his head, it was nearly impossible to make him to drop it. That had been true right from the beginning of their relationship.

Back then, Tom saw himself as something of a hero for helping Liz finally get the message through Nick's thick, stubborn skull that they were over, and it was a long time before he stopped reminding her about it. He painted himself as her knight in scruffy, hipster armor, but she was so grateful to be rid of Nick at that point that she didn't care as much as she should have.

(Red helped her see Tom for who he was, and who he wasn't. He didn't lord it over her or think less of her for falling for someone like that. He tried to reassure her that the things that happened were Tom's fault, not hers. She was so used to taking the blame for things, for bending and molding herself to fit where she normally wouldn't, that she hadn't known how to react to his brand of acceptance. She still didn't.)

If Tom believed something hard enough, he thought he could make everyone else believe it, too. He always had to be right, and everything always— _always_ —had to be his idea, or else it didn't have enough merit to warrant his time.

Liz learned early on that she had to work around those tendencies if she was ever going to get Tom to agree to anything she wanted. Arguing with him was exhausting; it was easier just to ride out disagreements and avoid him as much as possible until they blew over. She let him shift blame and play the victim, make plans without her input, anything to keep the peace. It became second nature after a while and it was a difficult habit to undo.

By the time he ran through all of his other options and came around to what she wanted in the first place, he always had a way of making her feel like he'd done her a favor, or he was going out of his way to accommodate what he saw as an unreasonable position for her to take. The worst of it was she usually ended up feeling grateful by the end of it, or at least relieved.

He made her feel so… selfish.

Selfish because she struggled to express herself sometimes, and often needed time alone, that she wasn't as emotionally available to him as good, normal wife should be.

Selfish because she wanted to do well at her job, and she didn't agree to quit and move the first time things got hard.

Selfish because she wanted children, but had wanted to wait until she was established in her career before she had them.

(Tom had the hardest time understanding that. If she wanted children so badly, why did they have to wait? He started pushing for them to try so early, Liz scrambled for the adoption idea because at least that would give her _time_ , time he couldn't argue with. Since she had been adopted herself, he didn't really have a leg to stand on to try to convince her to go a different way.)

Trying to reconcile memories like that with the man Tom claimed to be today caused Liz's heart to race and a sick panic to rise in her chest. She didn't _want_ to call him. She felt she _had_ to. She needed him out of her life for her own peace of mind. So he wouldn't hurt any more people, or himself. She had enough blood on her hands as it was.

Intellectually, she knew that none of it was her fault, but guilt didn't listen to reason, more often than not. Neither did shattered self-esteem or self-worth, both of which had been so thoroughly broken for her lately, she had a difficult time imagining how she could possibly rebuild them.

God. If Tom knew her half as well as he always said he did, he should have turned her down on that boat. If he really cared about her, he shouldn't have just taken what he wanted from her and sent her on her way. He wouldn't have taken advantage of her vulnerability. He would have realized she'd grow to regret that night much more than she'd ever regret not running with him.

Being with him after everything that happened would be no more authentic than their marriage had been. She still had no idea who the hell Jacob Phelps was, nor did she want to find out. She only knew Tom Keen and Tom Keen was a mirage. Not even a very pleasant one, all things considered.

He was nothing but the easy way out. Liz was many, many things, but she was _not_ a coward.

Now if only he would just stay away, maybe she could get him out of her head.

Liz sighed. Red was right. They needed rest. She kept a tighter rein on her thoughts when she had enough sleep. And she felt less like she was on the edge of a total meltdown or a panic attack all the time.

In an instant, she was on her feet, stalking across the stage and bypassing the door Red had so unnecessarily used when he left her alone. She found him stretched out on the bed, still dressed, but in his stocking feet. He had his book propped up in one hand on his belly; he hadn't moved quite quickly enough to hide his reading glasses from her. (She knew he only needed them some of the time, like when the lights were dim or when he was especially tired. Or both, as the case was here.)

"Do you need something?"

"You said we should rest." Running on sheer bravado, Liz slid her leather jacket off her shoulders and watched his body tense. "That's my side of the bed," she said, folding the jacket over her arm.

"No, it's…" Red trailed off, staring up at her. If he continued, he'd be admitting that he knew which side of the bed she usually slept on and there was really only one way he would know that. (What else did those damn surveillance videos show him?)

Silently, he closed his book and stood. She watched him walk as if in slow motion towards the end of the bed, more than convinced he would stride right across the stage for the couch, but he took a sharp turn instead and headed for the small bathroom backstage. She let out a breath.

 _OK. OK, relax._

Liz draped her jacket over the hard-backed chair next to the fake door. With slightly shaky hands, she reached under her shirt and tank to unhook her bra and pull it off. She eyed the chair again and decided she didn't have quite that much nerve; she settled for shoving the bra inside the nightstand drawer instead.

Red's ever-present brown shoes were already tucked neatly under the bed. She bent to remove her own shoes and lined them up alongside them, a strange pain lancing through her chest at the sight. With a few deep breaths, it passed, but this illusion of normality nearly made her ill. She sat down heavily on the bed and stretched out her legs.

She hadn't done this with anyone since Tom. Slept with anyone. Just slept, not…

Well, she hadn't done that with anyone since Tom either.

Not that it was a possibility with Red anyway. It just wasn't something either of them ever entertained.

Oh, but _that_ was a bald-faced lie. On her end, at least. She certainly had entertained the possibility, more than once. For a lot longer than she would like or was likely to ever admit.

If it wouldn't screw everything up beyond recognition, if it didn't come with an entire airport's worth of baggage, she would have more than entertained it.

Did he realize, she wondered? That if they didn't have this convoluted connection, if they had simply met somewhere as strangers, he could have quite easily charmed the pants off her? That she would've wanted him? That she still would, if not for… well, everything.

And, really, despite everything, she so easily could. When he did something clever and resourceful, it caught her off guard sometimes, just how effortlessly she could see herself with him. If he wasn't so tied up in his guilt and obligation, in his self-loathing, maybe he could see it, too. The mischief they could've gotten up to together if she had known him in high school alone would have been…

Well, it would have been amazing. The stuff of legends.

They could really be something, if only they had it in them to take the risk.

Red was, after all, completely in love with her. At least that's what she figured since that night in the shipping container. He certainly _loved_ her. She was sure of that.

It was a very unselfish kind of love. He didn't wave it like a flag in her face to prove himself worthy, unlike some people. It just… was. Deep and abiding, with no expectations at all. She almost wished there were expectations. Then maybe it wouldn't be so confusing.

Because she _did_ love him. She'd come to terms with that months ago, examining the reasons why the thought of not having him in her life caused her such distress. She might even be rushing headlong into being in love with him, too. It was difficult to avoid, now that she understood him and his motivations better.

He cared for her so much, he'd rather she hate him than hate herself. God, who even thinks that way? Who sacrifices their reputation with someone, their only chance to be seen in a good light, to protect them from their own hidden demons? Red, apparently.

Selfless. It was selfless. Red was selfless when it came to her. It took a long time for Liz to let herself believe that.

Because Tom was _not_ selfless. Even when she thought the world of him, she knew that. And all the literature on Red had him pegged for exactly the same type of opportunistic personality.

The literature couldn't even dream of properly understanding and unraveling the complexities of Raymond Reddington. Liz doubted she ever could either, but part of her suspected that Red would like it very much if she tried, even if it also terrified him.

Red was so quiet in his stocking feet that she didn't notice him returning from the bathroom until he was standing over her at the foot of the bed with his button-down shirt untucked and his vest folded over his arm. They watched each other in silence for a long moment before he nodded to himself and went to put his vest and belt on the chair with her jacket.

He turned back to assess the bed, worrying the inside of his cheek. It was close enough to the wall that he either had to climb over the rail at the foot of the bed or climb over Liz. She wouldn't get up unless he asked. She didn't plan on making the decision any easier for him.

Asking her to move required a type of acknowledgement he couldn't screw up the courage to make, so he chose to crawl awkwardly over the rail instead. He worked his body under the covers and lay on his side facing away from her.

Liz switched off the lights.

She could smell the mint from his toothpaste lingering in the air, could hear the empty space in the old theater; she could feel the distance, the very air between her body and the walls behind the seats.

"Red?" A half-conscious grunt was her only answer. She reached out a hesitant hand and placed it on his upper arm. "I can't sleep over here. I need that side."

He craned his neck and shot her a long-suffering look over his shoulder. "We could've saved a lot of time if you just—"

"Shut up and switch with me."

She had already started to shimmy her way across the mattress on her back before he even turned around. "Come on," she urged.

He sighed and got back onto his hands and knees, carefully placing one of each on the other side of her body; she steadied herself as she shifted with a hand on his rib cage and he froze, staring down at her.

Liz's chest tightened as Red's head dipped infinitesimally lower; her hands slid higher on his rib cage and her chin lifted, but he held himself at a small but steadfast distance after that initial dip.

"Red?"

His breathing grew more and more ragged the longer he kept himself braced so as not to put any of his weight on her. Thoughts and feelings barreled through her mind at the speed of light. Should she? Should she not?

The subtle tremble of restraint in his tense body decided it for her and she leaned up to brush her lips against his. After an interminably long moment, he responded, returning her tentative kiss with one of his own, tender, gentle, almost timid.

It was the sweetest thing Liz had ever experienced.

When he broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, breathing heavily through his nose. He pressed a featherlight kiss to each of her eyelids, her cheeks, her nose, and finally her mouth again.

"Goodnight, Lizzy," he whispered.

"Goodnight."

Finally, he made his way back to his original side of the bed; Liz rested her hand on his arm again, making sure to hold his gaze in the darkness. "Thank you," she said.

He watched her with his head quirked to one side, bemused. "Whatever you think you need to thank me for—"

She shook her head. "Just… thank you."


End file.
